Little Ironies
by blueflie
Summary: Snapshots in the life of a blue-eyed butterfly, and the beautiful man made of flesh and ink who holds them together while she sleeps. Renji X Rukia drabbles.
1. and she kind of liked it

**Prompt:** hands

**Pairing: **Renji X Rukia

**Disclaimer: **Yeah whatever, I don't own Bleach, I'm not Tite Kubo, but who cares, I'm taking over China one day and will be all powerful anyway, so whatever, doesn't matter, not worries

**Warnings: **Rated T for strong sexual implications and general plotless romance

* * *

Renji Abarai never had the smoothest of hands.

They had always been rough, rough from the get-go, the very start. Rough from living as a vagabond, rough from the years of wielding a sword, rough and worn out from the beatings life dealt him, and the boulders he had to crush with bare fists to pull through.

_To pull through to you_, he always said.

His hands were huge compared to her, probably larger than her entire face. She tried to test this theory once, but he told her that if her own hand was bigger than her face, she was stupid, and then he smacked it into her nose. She had kicked him and whined, but took solace in the fact that she wasn't stupid.

_You're stupid anyway, for falling for that_, he'd said

And she'd whined some more.

But then he took those huge, rough hands of his and laughed, and pulled her close, and promised that no matter how stupid she was, he would never let her go.

And here they were, and those hands were still holding her close, close enough to feel his hot breath on her neck, close enough to trace every tattoo on his chest, to get lost in that wild tangle of red hair, and those twinkling eyes that looked at her like she was the sun.

His hands were huge, rough, calloused, _like a monster_, he'd whispered once.

_Like a giant teddy bear_, she'd whispered back.

Lying in his arms, she'd often contemplated how easy it would be for him to crush her, just like that; he could probably do it with just one finger. One rough finger pierced straight into her soul, and that would be it, die with her heart in those hands.

His hands, his body; everything about him was meant to rough, passionate, strong. But instead of being rough like his hands, his touches were soft and gentle. He cupped her face and kissed her like she was made of fragile china, caressed her body like it was a butterfly, always mindful of the delicate wings. Her thighs were thin cherry blossom branches to him; he parted them like he was leafing through a waterlogged diary, _careful, don't rip the pages._

And he kissed her there in a flutter of light brushes or softly, slowly dragging those warm lips across her skin, as if she would bruise if he pressed too hard and the single touch of a tooth would make her bleed.

But he never, not once, had sex with her. At least, she could never bring herself to call it that. To her, it deserved more than just three letters, a crude vocabulary word. It was never angry and quick, or hard, or rough like his hands. It was sensual, unhurried, gentle, tender; a beast of a man stroking the wings of a broken bird. And she would gasp, moan, claw at the muscles in his back, ferocious like he looked but wasn't, and took from him until her body collapsed under the weight of his soft kisses and the gentle rhythm shattered her soul, and he would just take those hands hand gather up the pieces, and put her back together every time.

Once, she'd tried to note the difference to him. _Making love_, she'd called it.

_Idiot_, he'd scoffed_, you can't _make_ love. You can only find it, or hope it finds you. But I found it_, tracing a calloused thumb along the line of her jaw,_ right here._

_You're still really stupid, _burying herself further into his arms, deeper into his heart.

"I love you too, Rukia."

* * *

**Author's Note**: It's weird, I really like avoiding the mention of names, for some reason. Eh, whatever. I have a list of all these ridiculous prompts, so this will probably gain some chapters in the future. But seriiously, what kind of prompt s "fried chicken for an average soul"? Needless to say, I'm a wimp and started out with the easiest ones. You know, like the generically romantic "hands". Whoever made this list is pretty damn creative though, not matter how messed up. Because fried chicken is for cool people, there is no such thing as an "average" person eating fried chicken and still be average. Remember that kids, and there's really no need for higher education, or even school in general!

But just in case I'm wrong, don't listen to a word I say.


	2. words without sound

Prompt: the tree

Disclaimer: disclaimed and noted

A/N: This will probably cease to be relevant in a couple of days when the new chapter comes out, but eh whatever, if you're reading this after 426, just think about pickles instead.

* * *

"You miss him."

Wide blue eyes opened at the sound of that voice, his voice.

A smirk. "Only you would pick here of all places to wallow in misery."

She doesn't respond, she doesn't need to.

He doesn't ask for an invitation, plopping himself down next to her. He tilts his face towards the sun, and she can't help but notice tattoos and that dumb smile and _him _and _everything_.

They sit in silence for a while, and it's been too many years counting since they had this conversation, the one with just heartbeats and soundless words.

"Why are you so attached to this place?" comes the break of silence, an unintentional crack in the voice

_You know why_, those refined black eyebrows knit together

"I'm not wallowing." She doesn't look up.

_Yeah, sure you aren't_, golden eyes twinkle.

He leans back against the tree, _their _tree, and closes his eyes. Muscles that he didn't even realize were tensed relax, and it feels so right sitting next to her, and next to this tree where it all started and was starting over again. This conversation, the one with quiet and soft smiles and_ just us, whatever we do, we won't leave each other alone okay?_

Those were the days when everything that should've been was, before the shinigami and the noble house and him and his _stupid _orange hair and the way he made her smile like he used to be able to.

"You could go, you know…maybe this time he'll see-"

"There's no point Renji," and she finds herself leaning back, familiar bark of the tree, _their _tree, easing her heavy heart. "He can't sense us anymore. There's no point."

But she's not wallowing, no, not at all.

And it's just this place, and all the memories of her and him and them and all the painful stones she carries in her heart of what was supposed to happen and what didn't happen and what could have been and _why did you let me go?_

"How did we get here?" she wonders, softly, willing her downcast eyes to cover her words so he couldn't hear them, but she already knows that it's been too many years counting when he doesn't have to hear it to know.

Golden eyes blink, tattoos crinkle with a tense brow. "Rukia…"

Somewhere in the world, she's sure she's not the only one with a heart that's breaking, and a tear that won't fall because _she won't cry, she won't._

"This is…this is where we were supposed to become shinigami and stick together no matter what…and…everyone leaves eventually…Kaien…Ichigo..."

_You._

"We were supposed to…why...why did….?" And the sentence is left unsaid, but he doesn't have to hear to know.

He wants to turn and face her, but his eyes remained glued to the ground, _grass is the most interesting thing on earth, it is, really_

_You had a family. _A tattooed hand moves to rub behind his neck.

We _were family. _A petite body leans back further into a tree.

Golden eyes look skyward. _You were better off without me_

Blues eyes meet his. "Sometimes I wish…we could just…start over."

"Yeah, maybe."

And she smiles and scoots closer into the strong arms that were always open, because in _this _moment she can lean on a chest of ink and flesh and blood instead of the fading one of strained memories and she doesn't respond, she doesn't have to.

* * *

A/N: Bleach is headed towards a total WTF moment, I just know it. Also, Ishida's new look has made a convert out of this Ichihime-er. Or almost, anyway.


End file.
